


Toward the Pebbled Shore

by unsedentary



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Shameless Smut, xfwritingchallenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-23 04:13:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4862702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsedentary/pseuds/unsedentary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the end of winter when they first met, his eyes a challenge on hers, the colour of dark new leaves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toward the Pebbled Shore

**Author's Note:**

> My response to the Tumblr xfwritingchallenge prompt by leiascully: “seasons.”

It was the end of winter when they first met, his eyes a challenge on hers, the colour of dark new leaves.

The basement heater did its best and the chill in the musty office gave it character and kept them in layers.

She thought he was a genius out of his mind, more handsome than was good for him, restless and endlessly unpredictable. She thought he kept his soul separated from the world with thick layers of hurt.

They were two magnetic poles, attracting when they faced an opposition, repelling when they tried to face each other truly.

They were two iron nails someone had foolishly rubbed a magnet over, and she was waiting patiently for the magnetic fields to wear off.

 

* * *

It’s almost spring again and the snow is dirty chunks of ice by the side of the road, the city slowly returning to its summer verdant bloom. It’s six in the morning and the alarm clock will ring in fifteen minutes and Scully is unrepentantly relishing a nice carpet burn as Mulder works inside of her, one forearm next to her face and the other in the crook of her knee.

“Mulder,” she moans, “Muld-“

His name is caught in her throat when he bites down on her shoulder, licks her skin. The pleasure peak is just out of her reach, just outside her grasp.

“Why haven’t we done this before?” she asks, scraping messy parallel lines into the muscle over his shoulder blade.

“This path, how soft to pace,” he mumbles, changing his angle slightly and making her breath hitch.

“What?”

“Browning,” he explains, and of course, of course he’s thinking about poetry while fucking her. Mulder’s mind is wired like spider web, labyrinthine and connecting everywhere. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen, this shocking indiscretion that began last night, and yet it surprised neither of them when the take-out carton was pushed aside, when he helped her climb into his lap, when she sipped warm breath from his lips and felt herself open, open, open.

“Go faster, please,” she pleads, and he screws his eyes shut and obliges, thick inside of her and uncomfortable and the curve of him hitting some very good places.

“Touch yourself, Scully,“ he says, gravelly and strained. He surges above her and rests his lips on her forehead.

She wonders at the possibility of blushing when she’s already naked and spread underneath him. Sex blurs lines between people and selves and partners and want and need. Two weeks ago she was in Maine, thinking she could somehow untether herself from him.

She snakes her hand between them, closes her mouth around his Adam’s apple, spreads her own arousal through the folds of her hood and draws a spiral around it with her finger, circling, circling…

He says her name with a croak and it washes over her like a revelation. He finds her lips with his, crooked above her, and the end is near, the bubble inside her starts to expand slowly, soon, soon, soon…

“So do our minutes hasten to their end,” she manages, and he laughs, and light bursts, her climax sizzles through her. She pants into his open mouth as he rides it out with her, wave after wave of sensory overload.

When the clouds of her vision part, when she can hear again, he is looking straight into her eyes, still hard and going at her fiercely. “And yet in times of hope,” he says, strained, punctuating his thrusts.

“Mulder, let go,” she tells him when she finds a space to breathe, smoothing a hand over his damp forehead, and he groans, comes inside of her, pressing his cheek to hers and trembling above her.

A few seconds of quiet, and he rolls off her, resting on his back and taking her with him.

“Well,” she says, her cheek to his thump-thumping heart.

This is it, this is the one to remember, the one to write about. “Yeah,” he agrees, and it rumbles in his chest like spring thunder. “Nice Shakespeare comeback.”

“Thank you,” she says, at rest.

She leaves him to use the bathroom and to clean herself up, adrift without his touch. When she comes back, he is in the bed again and he wraps the sheet around them.

The alarm will ring any minute and she will keep this with her all day. She will carry the touch of his fingertips into the boardrooms, his scent into the sterile laboratories, the twinges where he stretched her into the hallways, his whispered endearments into each second.

She’ll hold him close and let him hold her back.

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Mulder quotes from is [“Never the Time and the Place”](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173026) by Browning. Scully quotes from Shakespeare’s [Sonnet LX](http://www.shakespeares-sonnets.com/sonnet/60), and Mudler responds from the same. The title is also from Sonnet LX. You know, because when in doubt, quote poetry.


End file.
